


crash dive

by cowboyflesh (cowboymeat), lambchops (lambmeat)



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Dom Kerry, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Public Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboymeat/pseuds/cowboyflesh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambmeat/pseuds/lambchops
Summary: “You wanna see me fuck him? Sorry, pal,” Johnny scoffs, “I’m not good at sharing.”Kerry groans, sheerly from the deep treble of Johnny’s voice— growling his warning to the audience member, thickened and hot like the air of a building on fire with his hunger. It reverberates beneath them as the speaker projects his voice, and he shivers at the sensation of the vibrations traveling up his body through Johnny’s.“Pretty fuckin’ bold, thinkin’ he’s in charge,” Kerry jeers. It earns some wolf-whistles as Johnny growls out of a chuckle against the shell of his ear.
Relationships: Kerry Eurodyne/Johnny Silverhand
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	crash dive

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: it's all consensual

The pulse of the band working the crowd thrums through the small concrete-cast room as Johnny savors his last cigarette before walking onstage. A couple of sound techs mill about, pointedly not paying a lick of attention to Silverhand lest they catch his pre-show nerves manifested in cruelty. It’s okay; Johnny likes it better that way. 

Gives him time to mull over the way Kerry tugged at his hair in the privacy of their dressing room. The way he crushed their lips together, each of their tongues darting out and getting nipped by the other. Exploratory hands squeezed his thighs, blunt nails sliding off the fabric in fervidity. He can still feel those hands groping at the meat of his thighs, skittering for his belt buckle, only stopping as the bravest of groupies interrupted to call Eurodyne to the stage. 

Ended with Johnny left, somehow, even more sexually frustrated than he started. ’Course, Kerry promised to pick up where they left off after the show, but it does nothing for him in the meantime. Not to mention the half-hardness he’s rocking quite obviously. 

He drops the filter of his smoke and crushes it under the heel of his boot before scooping up his ax and slinging the strap around his shoulders. It’d hide his predicament from the audience, but the rest of the band wouldn’t be so lucky. 

As he pushes past the stage doors, breaching the boundary of pure noise, he can’t help the smirk that takes form. Cheers become deafening even over the buzz of Kerry’s own bass and the raw tune in his throat. A warm welcome. 

Pushing his aviators up as he swaggers over to the mic, Kerry easily steps out of his way. Leaves him with a little extra too— subtly takes a handful of his ass and squeezes it. Kerry’s nothing if not practiced in the art of PDA while dodging paparazzi. A few cameras flash as a handful of fans notice the exchange, and it earns a renewed round of cheering. 

The eye contact between them is searing. Challenging, almost. Daring Johnny to make a move, to play chicken with their rep. For once, Silverhand doesn’t take the bait; he reaches for the mic and barks out a greeting. 

The sleazy pub they’ve landed in releases a raucous uproar, already keyed up from Kerry’s warm-up and their blatantly inappropriate interactions. While not necessarily in their routine, it isn’t uncommon to witness the two vocalists molesting each other on stage, the adrenaline and high of playing in a packed building making them drop their inhibitions— if either of them has any to begin with.

As he finishes his spiel, Johnny feels Kerry’s presence behind him, then more firmly, his guitar pressed against him. Shooting a look at Kerry through the side of his sunglasses, he feels his cheeks flush with arousal as Eurodyne meets his eyes with a hooded gaze, a hungry smirk tugging his lips. His speech almost trips as he struggles to steer his stare back onto the excited crowd.

They caught that as well, a low chorus of  _ oooh’s  _ that makes him chuckle, a mere puff against the mic.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Johnny says lowly, speaking to both the crowd and to the man that is running his ringed fingers up the small of his back, “‘cause—”

Before he can get an excuse out, the hand that was slowly creeping up his back grabs a fistful of his hair and wrenches his head back. Not the hardest he’s ever done before, but still with enough force that a groan claws out of Johnny’s throat and he bears his teeth against the ache of his scalp. Kerry doesn’t use the leverage to rip him away from the mic, but rather steps beside him and leans in.

“He’s talkin’ too much,” Kerry grins widely as he receives a round of cheers and catcalls, “don’tcha think?” Looking to Johnny, he finds the bassist staring at him with hunger swirling in those dark eyes. Not quite snarling at the smaller man, he huffs and sets his jaw.

The rest of the pub doesn’t exist for that moment. Kerry’s eyes narrow, challenging him to snap and do something stupid in front of all the watching eyes, daring him to jump him on stage. The desire to smash their lips together is written all over Johnny’s face, and he’s clinging to a shred of self-restraint. 

Kerry rewards the show of discipline by getting in his face with a teasing smile, fingers massaging his head and soothing over the ache of his manhandling.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Johnny hisses as he shakes the obvious effect off and slips his cool, collected rockerboy persona back on, and try not to look half as hard as he is. 

As he moves away, he brazenly smacks Kerry’s ass and grins at the jump and muffled wince he gets.

“You love me,” Kerry chirps, and while his head is turned to speak to Silverhand, the mic catches the lower tones of his rumbling voice, and a ripple of comfortable, light-hearted laughter runs through the crowd.

Johnny returns the gesture with his own form of light-hearted affection: flipping off the singer before the hand comes back to rest at the neck of his guitar. 

The saccharine smile he earns in return would be repulsive if it came from anyone other than Kerry. Tongue darting out over top the cusp of his teeth, his lips glisten under the blue-hued stage lights. He knows what he’s doing. Eurodyne whips his hair out of his face with a jerk of the head, and Johnny’s chest is driven through with a stake of desire. His beauty is effortless. 

Kerry finally begins the next song after a couple more exchanges of banter with the audience and Johnny falls in alongside him on bass. 

Chemistry backstage seems to bleed through easily as tissue paper to their sets, supercharging their performances— sometimes to a fault. Circles back to getting in the way of things. Though most fans don’t seem to mind when they get just a touch too handsy. 

Especially not when a particularly soulful rendition of their hits becomes a war of attrition over who would break down and succumb to the tension first. Kerry’s gunning for Johnny tonight, and their hormones lay as thick in the room as the fog of cigarettes. 

Johnny gets lost in the song, relishing the competition for his attention between the drone of the barroom and the wailing of his guitar— so much so that he doesn’t notice Eurodyne slipping the microphone from its hold and wandering the stage. 

He puts on such a good show of stoking the fanfare; it’s no wonder why the venues they play tend to beef up their security prior to the show. They can only end one of a few ways, and the majority of them none-too-pretty. To say the least, the confiscation of weapons from rockstars and attendees alike are with good reason. 

The final power cord rings out, and Silverhand’s panting. Sweat-slicked skin attracts the smaller hairs that frame his face. Ears ringing from the sheer power of the show as their last song draws to a close, he slackens his guard. He doesn’t even realize Kerry’s addressing the crowd beyond a farewell until the all-too-familiar tone he uses when whipping Johnny up into a frenzy fills his ears. 

“Shame that’s all we got for you tonight. Wanna keep you coming back for more,” Kerry speaks into the mic. He’s not looking at the audience— the twinkle of his dark eyes are focused on the bassist beside him. 

“Got an idea,” Johnny says gruffly. Thorough as the self-control is drilled into him by Kerry, there’s only so much teasing and flirting he can handle before it boils over. 

“And what’s that, Johnny?”

A mean smile, more akin to one an alligator would wear than a playful flirtation might budget for, splits Silverhand’s lips. Boots clomp across the stage until less than a few inches separate their faces. 

“Stop actin’ like a little bitch and do something about this,” he all-but-snarls as he gestures vaguely to the hardness that still refuses to dissipate. 

“Just had to ask,” Kerry returns with ease. The hand sporting the microphone falls to spare the intimate details, while his free one loosely grabs a hold of Silverhand’s throat to hold him steady. They’ll be accused of scripting it for publicity regardless, might as well actually enjoy it. Their lips crush together. 

Incisors puncture lips as the testosterone in the room grows to be choking. The crowd is reduced to murmurs and gasps of shock as the two have their moment. 

The moment stretches, and Kerry tries to break it with a half step back. The only thing that happens is the pass of the guitar’s strap over Johnny’s head as he carelessly lets it drop to the stage. A breathless chuckle passes his parted lips as he follows. The bootsteps keep coming, threatening to tangle Kerry’s legs if he doesn’t accommodate. 

Onlookers, the remaining ones who didn’t make their exit upon the first crackle of arousal, emit noises of shock. Intrigued and startled. A handful of fans dive closer to the stage, fighting the security presence to nab the ax already forgotten on the floor. 

It doesn’t matter to Johnny, not as he’s surging forward, crowding against Kerry without reprieve. Hands free, he grabs a hold of the smaller man and leverages him to the speaker, set at the front of the stage for the audience. While trying to keep his footing, struggling not to trip backward, Johnny plucks the mic from his hands as his boot heel connects with the large speaker. 

“How about an encore?” he growls into the mic lowly, grinning hungrily at Kerry as he fumbles for something to say. Taken too much to chew, suffocating on Johnny’s overpowering sexuality, he’s at a loss for words. 

Sliding behind Kerry with a hand around his waist, he sits atop the speaker before wrangling the vocalist into his lap. Facing the audience with flushed faces and panting breaths, Johnny arranges Eurodyne until his thighs are splayed over the bassist’s. 

The groupies who have shoved their way to the front get an excellent shot of both the guitarists’ bulges, scarcely hidden by too-tight jeans and pleather. Those in the back have their attention drawn to Kerry’s as Johnny gropes him aggressively, earning a rough gasp and a flutter of his eyelashes before Kerry focuses. 

Johnny draws the mic up to speak again as the other settles. A mean snarl perched on his lips, he doesn’t relent and continues to work the vocalist’s bulge with his palm. 

“Let’s see how far he lets this go,” he says, and the speakers rumble beneath them. A ripple of uncertain laughter flutters through the crowd. The mic catches Kerry’s shuddered breath, adrenaline and desire chasing each other in circles inside his head. A few more cameras flash, and neither of them seem to pay any mind. 

Silverhand can feel the aching throb of Kerry’s erection through the fabric, leaving little to the imagination with the thin material his jeans are constructed from. He lets it go on too much farther, and the smaller man’s gonna cum before Johnny even frees him from his boxers. Seems he isn’t the only one left hot-and-bothered by their interruption earlier. 

With practiced ease, the teasing hand shifts to undo Eurodyne’s belt and fly. Kerry’s own hand shoots to meet his wrist, but neither of them put up a struggle— unspokenly, it’s merely for the theatrics. 

Besides, who knows how to better put on a show than Kerry?

Getting pulled from his briefs is less shocking than Eurodyne expects, their proximity heating the air around them in a halo. His grip remains on Johnny’s wrist as the man behind him begins pumping him in tight, firm strokes, and there’s no need to play up the groan he gives to the crowd. Naturally, it floats over the air loud enough to reach the microphone. 

“Shit,” he whispers, the other hand tangling in the sweat-damp hair hanging down onto Johnny’s shoulders. He tugs gently, pulling on the reigns somewhat to remind him who’s in charge. Silverhand stops his movement dead, punctuated by a spurt of precum decorating the top of the speaker below them. 

“Think you owe us a BD, Ker.”

Kerry’s gaze flicks up to the audience from where he was watching himself leak onto the speaker. The movement of the crowd has changed from energetic rippling to a slow undulation. He spies several audience members getting into the groove, following the tempo that they’ve set. Those further away from watchful, snippy security guards have roped in their partners, rocking to their melody and joining in.

“Don’t need my scroll,” Kerry muses, nodding at a particularly brazen couple, “seems like they’re makin’ their own.”

Johnny follows his eyes, watching the crowd members. Following their lead, he matches their rhythm, pumping Kerry’s cock slowly as he watches the two preen under the new attention and allow their nerves to melt into each other’s touches. 

Silverhand tends to have that effect on people; good at dissolving personal reservations, getting them living a little, even if that means dry humping at a crowded function with the stars of the show singling them out.

Others cave in, mindless in the pool of pure pheromones saturating them more than their cheap beers can. Some too loyal to strip their gazes from the two guitarists cheer them on, shouting out demands and whistling their approval.

Johnny’s ears prick at a particular shouted suggestion, and he turns his darkened gaze towards the man.

“What’d you say?”

His hand settles, grip tight around the base of Kerry’s length, choking his climax.

“You wanna see me fuck him? Sorry, pal,” Johnny scoffs, “I’m not good at sharing.”

Even without any stimulation past the warm ring of his fingers pinching him, Kerry groans, sheerly from the deep treble of Johnny’s voice— growling his warning to the audience member, thickened and hot like the air of a building on fire with his hunger. It reverberates beneath them as the speaker projects his voice, and he shivers at the sensation of the vibrations traveling up his body through Johnny’s.

He catches his mental footing, turning towards the mic.

“Pretty fuckin’ bold, thinkin’ he’s in charge,” Kerry jeers. It earns some wolf-whistles as Johnny growls out of a chuckle against the shell of his ear. It sends another tingle through his spine, the hot puff of air followed by words explicitly for him, decided in how low he hums.

“Gonna need ya later,” Johnny whispers, voice like thunder in his chest, felt like lightning in Kerry’s. Strictly for Eurodyne’s ears, a private moment in the midst of the most exhibition they’ve ever participated in.

His cock throbs in Silverhand’s grasp, the wanton desire laced through the vowels of his words, splitting his consonants as stunted clicks of his teeth as he barely constrains his pure hunger.

“You’re about ready to beg for it,” Johnny taunts to the mic, his shifting tone as jarring as an ice bath. He backs off of the pinch, allowing more blood to flush Kerry’s tip a pretty cherry red. Maintains a good facade of dominance.

The vocalist offers a snort of laughter, tugging on Johnny’s hair as he inclines his own head. He’s blushing to the back of his neck, veins hyperactive as need courses through them. If only everyone else could see the way it makes his freckles pop, accentuates his eyes. Not that Johnny would allow it— as eager he is to roll over for Kerry in private, he’s none-too-generous when it comes to showing off the gentler aspects of him. 

Flashing cocks is one thing, but those minute details are guarded as preciously as a drug stash. 

Taking advantage of the now-bare patch of skin, Johnny leans in to suckle at the soft flesh at the side of Kerry’s neck. Another spurt of pre as the smaller squirms at the stimulation. 

“Christ, gonna take me to dinner first?”

“’S where you draw the line? Can’t disappoint our fans.”

With that, he returns to jerking Kerry off, fast and dirty. Intent on making him cum. It only takes a few seconds of treatment before he can feel the vocalist tensing up in preparation for the overdue release— just as he can see the toes in Kerry’s boots curl, he lets go. Leaves his arousal pulsing and begging for more, not quite enough to paint the stage. It lays lewdly in the gap of his fly, hot and heavy.

“Not gettin’ off that easy, though.”

“Johnny…”

The tang of Eurodyne’s skin lays heavy on Johnny’s tongue as his breath teases against the skin. Practically sealed against his back, Kerry is keenly aware of the sick enjoyment the bassist is getting from showing off his boytoy in action. 

“Hope you’re all paying attention. Might just be the only time you get to see the biggest star in Night City empty his balls on-stage.”

“Freak,” Kerry mutters, though it only comes across as a groan as it’s cast out to the bar. Certainly sounds like one to Johnny, especially as he replaces his hand around the girth. 

That’s all it takes— a half-stroke before Kerry’s hips are jerking wildly as he tries to fuck into the fist and ropes of cum are crudely highlighted by the stage lights. 

It’s as if he had plucked the last note from his guitar, wrapping up the closing song with a bang— the crowd roars as if they’re working towards a second encore, surging against the security (which had to pack the bodies closer together with the couple’s stunt happening at the edge of the stage) with renewed force. 

It’s a vulgar blessing that it wasn’t Johnny getting his cock fondled on stage, as a few more-or-less fortunate crowd members would have been caught in the crossfire with his notorious range. 

Where Silverhand bests him in distance, Kerry makes up for it in pure quantity. The speaker is undoubtedly ruined as the ridiculous amount of cum finds the nooks and crannies of its casing. 

As Kerry tries to catch his breath and find his second-wind before Johnny rips into him like a starving hound in private, another loud demand graces his ears. 

“Think they want to see you,” he muses with a sharp grin, “showed you mine, show me yours.” He turns his head and finds Johnny’s eyes beneath those inky shades. They’re narrowed, burning holes into his soul with his intensity. He’s aching beneath Kerry, desperate to have the vocalist to himself and to quit idling. 

“If we get to play here again,” Johnny promises to Kerry before shifting to the audience, “I’ll give y’all a  _ Silverhand solo.” _

It’s cheesy, making Kerry roll his eyes as he tucks himself away, but the crowd eats it ravenously, chewing on it and taking his words at face value. As easy as a joytoy, the crowd clings to it with matching, if compassionless, desire. 

Really knows how to get them crawling back to every low-life den they manage to snag. 

Kerry slips off Johnny’s lap, already missing the comfortable warmth of the bassist’s lap and the firm press of his cock against the swell of his ass. He adjusts himself, taunting the audience, giving a little preview to their next ticket if they can persuade the venue to let them back after the trick they pulled. 

All the pseudo, false, flashy dominance to preserve his cool, rockerboy persona is just that— fake. Kerry chews his lip as Johnny lingers by the stage's edge, no longer trying to obscure himself as he offers teasing farewells to particular faces he remembers well from the halls beside the rehearsal rooms. 

Hopefully, they head home to mass-post their experience to their fellow fanatics and don’t think to tag them to their private room. Hearing Johnny get railed within an inch of his life is going to shatter all their fragile wet dreams, and Kerry can only live out one fantasy at a time. 

Predicting the actions of more rabid fans, security only allows them to pass through their arms before the doors swing and lock shut behind them. A few crewmembers of other bands glance their way as they stumble into the hall, but quickly turn elsewhere as they realize that they’re tripping over themselves.

Kerry is trying to grab Johnny’s cock through his pleather pants or grope him as he hurries his stride in his haste to get in their little haven. Johnny breaks to wrest him against the wall hard enough to punch the breath out of the smaller, forcing his tongue down his throat and groaning when Kerry tugs his hair, rips him back into line with a lust-drunk grin. 

All but falling through the door as Kerry shoves him against the cheap wood, Johnny finally snaps. The moment Kerry shuts and probably, maybe, locks the door, Johnny is throwing himself at his feet. 

The vigor startles Kerry, eyes going wide as the rockerboy shoves his nose against the bulge straining his jeans and moaning under his breath. 

“God damn, babe,” Kerry groans as Johnny breaks the button of his jeans and pulls him back out. Still flushed, throbbing weakly under new stimulation, and tip wet with cum and fresh pre.

Johnny pants from arousal alone, like a dog in the heat just before a run, yet to be put to work. Lapping at the blunt head, cleaning him off the mess he left on-stage, Johnny grins with his tongue supporting Kerry’s cock. 

“Fuck,” Kerry bites as if he were gut-punched, the sight alone making his cock give a weak spurt of precum, painting the back of Johnny’s tongue.

Before he can engulf the fat length, mouth watering in anticipation as he wraps his lips around the head, Kerry threads his fingers through his hair and holds him at arms-length. 

“Get up, gotcha somethin’,” Kerry pants. Johnny’s brow furrows in frustration and question, but he obediently rises to his feet. 

Silverhand mindlessly rubs the heel of his hand against his own erection, eyes hooded as they follow Kerry across the room. As fun as it is to play dom, he can only pretend so long before he grows tired of the charade. 

“Got somethin’ special from my dealer,” he tosses out casually as he rummages through the trashed countertops. Food wrappers, cans, and bottles litter their surface, obscuring whatever it is that Kerry special-ordered for him. They never were the tidiest folk, but together they’re a true force of nature. 

Finally, he pulls a tiny plastic dimebag out from beneath the rubble. Silverhand can’t help the way his eyes widen; he doesn’t care what’s in it— he needs it now. 

“Little something extra in it, too. You’ll see,” he says, sweeping off a clear space with the clatter of aluminum to the floor. Procuring a credit card, he meticulously cuts lines for Johnny. 

“It’s potent. Don’t need a lot,” he explains. He looks back at Johnny as he feels his presence looming behind him. “Unless you wanna be fucked up for the next couple days, too.”

“Don’t care.”

“I know. I do.”

Johnny huffs, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when Kerry coughs up free drugs. Wouldn’t interrupt head for anything less than something mind blowing.

Eurodyne shifts to the side to allow Johnny space to partake, gathering the dark locks in a hold behind his head as he leans in. 

The headrush as Johnny leans back up from it is disorienting— he almost has to sit down lest he busts his skull on the concrete floor. Kerry gives a little chuckle as his eyes glaze. 

“Knew you’d like it.”

“Jesus fuck, Ker. Strong.”

“Need to sit?”

Johnny cracks a smile, shifting to fall to his knees again. Stumbling over his limbs. “This ‘s good.”

“Easy there,” Kerry says, hand finding Johnny’s jawbone. His thumb strokes over it once, and the bassist leans into it, nearly to the point of falling over. “Did good, thought you needed a reward.”

“Shut up,” he prickles. Trying to egg Eurodyne into being mean. All it does is elicit a chuckle. All of his bite is gone, especially as a blush stains his features. 

Cocking his hips, he welcomes Johnny back to his previous activity. And he leans in obediently, warm lips teasing at the head before wrapping around and sinking down. Almost to the root. But even at the top of his game, his show-worn throat agonizes over the last couple of inches. 

“There he is,” Eurodyne sing-songs, continuing normally, “if only they could see the real you. How much you wanna be on your knees for me.”

Johnny glares up at him, sniffling still as the drugs rip through his system. He’s the last thing from intimidating, and he knows it. 

“What, don’t like the truth?”

Conflicting highs battle in his head; one offering complete clarity and laser-focus, and the other slowing those thoughts down, muddling them. Filling his head with cotton. His heart pounds in his ears, making his carotid leap with each rabbit-quick pulse. It stifles the pain of the stretch at the back of his throat, making it feel far away and insignificant. 

He doesn’t even process the look of concern lighting up Kerry’s features until there’s a finger swiped beneath his nose. He huffs in irritation. Why should he care that his nose is bleeding down his lips— happens just about every time he tries to snort something. 

It’s to be expected, especially since Kerry was supplying something substantially stronger than clear-cut coke. That’s why he enforced moderation, knowing Johnny has no thought left sober in his head at any given moment to exhibit self-restraint with his fixes. 

Pure cocaine, cut with tranquilizer known for knocking people out of their bodies. Considering the options for typical street drugs are limited in their effects— with stimulants wiring the heart and drugs such as roofies not offering as much of a participating partner as Kerry would like— he poured a few hours of research into what he could possibly combine without straight-up killing his boyfriend. He only entrusted his best dealer with concocting such a volatile drug, not wanting to put Johnny down in their exuberant chase for the highest highs. Simply wanted to… mellow him out. 

It seems to do just as it intended— Johnny’s eyelids growing heavy under the weight of gravity and falling shut as he mindlessly kneads at Kerry’s thighs, low, thoughtless moans reverberating through the cock in his mouth. 

The slow trickle of crimson hardly bothers Silverhand, seeing as he happily bobs his head and hollows his cheeks around Kerry’s cock without acknowledging the warm liquid matting his facial hair. 

“So pretty,” Kerry rumbles, swiping the thumb smeared with blood over Johnny’s stretched bottom lip as if applying lipstick. Eyes fluttering open, Johnny looks up at Eurodyne with no intelligence behind those dilated pupils. All cognizant thought is covered in the numbing high, lacquered over like polish on wood. No attitude, no struggle to sour the mood— just compliance. 

In such a state, Kerry likes to take care of Johnny in ways that the bassist would fight against if he were any percent soberer. Caresses and praise generally are met with snaps and snarls like a wounded dog bites the hand that feeds it. Sedated, kneeling, he takes the gentle touch without a fuss. 

Even goaded into being rough, he doesn’t bite the bait, seeing the gleaming hook clearly. He’s more than happy to knock Johnny around when he’s sober, but he’s got a stronger moral backbone than a lot of their nay-sayers and own fans might accredit the rockstars. 

Leaning against the vanity with a groan, Kerry threads his fingers through Silverhand’s hair and pets his head, allowing the rockerboy to work at his own pace. He’s always happiest with something in his mouth, be it a cigarette, guitar pick, or a cock throbbing against his tongue. Has even gotten him to relax and almost fall asleep, simply suckling and warming Kerry’s cock in his throat. 

As heavenly as it is, having Johnny blissfully immersed in his high, taking his cock down his throat lazily in slow bobs, Kerry doesn’t want to end their night just yet. Not until he gets to take Johnny while he’s all coked up and pliant. 

Closest he gets to being tame— next step would be to slip something in his drink, not something he’s particularly keen on doing even as Johnny has floated the idea past him in playful flirting. 

“C’mon, babe. Up,” he murmurs sweetly, gently pulling Johnny from his stupor and off his cock. Blood intermingled with drool connect in a thick rope between his lips and Kerry’s twitching length. 

Obediently, he rises, albeit clumsily. He moves as though his limbs are moving through water, pushing up against the force of the tide just to move. He sways as he stands. 

Kerry guides him, stumbling in his stupor, over to the practice stage in the corner of the room. With one arm, he supports Silverhand, and the other, he clears off the exploded duffel bags of clothes. Johnny props himself up on the stage, hips digging into the wood vinyl. 

“Let’s get you outta those clothes, huh?” Kerry hums, undoing the belt buckle with ease. His pants slough off easily, taking his briefs with them. 

Silverhand groans at the nip of the air on his newly-exposed flesh, a shiver working his spine. Kerry pats at his ass playfully. 

“What’dya need all this for?”

Johnny lets his head fall to the stage with a thunk. 

“Hey, now. Careful.”

With the rockerboy steadied, he pulls to rummage through their belongings until he finds a half-empty, sloppily-capped bottle of lube. Johnny’ll already have enough to worry about on the comedown— doesn’t need to worry about sitting. 

Settling behind him again, he works Silverhand’s cock slowly. Even the slightest touch has him leaking, dribbling precum onto his pants pooled at his feet. With the ease of a fist to fuck into, he slips a lubed finger into his hole. 

It flutters around him halfheartedly, and Johnny gives a sigh. As the digit works deeper, skirting along his silken walls, Kerry leans in, lips against the shell of Silverhand’s ear. 

“Gonna take it like a good boy?”

“Mmh.”

The soft dirty talk falls daintily on Johnny’s ears, sloshing around with the blind warmth and euphoria dancing in his head. If heaven is real, it’s here. With Kerry wrapped around him and the death-march of his daily life far over the horizon. 

He’s stretched deftly, fingers working quickly but carefully to ready him for Kerry’s length. Noisily fingerfucking as he works him open, Kerry groans into his ear. “You’re gonna feel so good.”

Johnny pushes his hips back against Eurodyne’s wrist, and the message is clear. Now. 

The head of his cock presses slowly into Johnny’s eager hole. It’s eased by his induced pliancy, much to each of their pleasure— it’s no effort at all to slide home, even with Kerry’s BD-star girth. 

A weak gasp is forced into Johnny’s lungs as Kerry bottoms out. He just barely feels the vocalist stroke his hair in the face of the heat piercing deep into his belly. The edge of pain is taken off, leaving him overwhelmingly full. 

“There we go,” he praises. “Took it all.”

“Fu-uck,” Johnny whines against the back of his hand. 

Kerry can’t help but smile at the sight of Silverhand absolutely gone, all personas and hard exterior thrown to the wind. All he knows now is to spread his legs and take it. 

He rolls his hips experimentally, mostly to see how the other man would react. Overwhelmingly positive— he moans and tenses ever-so-slightly around the cock now splitting him open. 

As he draws out, Johnny tries to chase him back with his hips, only to momentarily lose his footing as his boot remains caught in his pants. Kerry catches him as a knee buckles, a hand supporting his hip and the other pinning his upper body to the stage. 

“Easy,” he coos as the bassist groans in frustration. Desperate to get fucked, about to fall over in his sky-high daze, he thumps a fist against the stage to portray his irritation. 

Laughing softly, a mere huff through the nose, Kerry cocks his hips forward until Johnny is pressed flush against the stage, secured and steady with his upper body laying flat against the vinyl. 

“I gotcha, baby boy,” Kerry says, the edge of a musical tone creeping in where the deep treble of his voice is laved over in sugary affection. Bittersweet and tooth-rotting, Johnny whines thinly and wets his lips, chasing the taste. 

Dragging out, Kerry watches as Johnny’s puffy rim stretches around his girth, pink and glinting with an excessive amount of lube. Then he pushes back in, reveling in the reflexive tightening of his body around him with a low groan. 

An open moan escapes Johnny at that, the simple, slow pace Kerry sets. Where his chest is flat to the stage, Kerry can feel the reverberations of his voice reaching the walls. 

Didn’t expect him to try and be quiet, even if he had enough awareness about him to think about the neighboring bands catching him crying and moaning like a cheap joytoy. 

“There he is,” Kerry purrs, drawing out to the tip before quickly sheathing himself in that gloriously tight heat. Always tight, no matter what. 

“Ker,” Johnny warbles, nails scratching at the synthetic fuzz atop the stage. Every time Kerry bottoms out, jostling the man beneath him, Johnny emits a weak noise, a cross between a gasp and a mewl.

“What ‘s it, babe?”

For a few seconds, Johnny can’t speak. He drags himself onto his elbows, head hanging between his shoulders as he swallows lungfuls of air between thrusts. 

“Ah— more,” Johnny murmurs, slurring his words together, “wan’ it— Ker, please.”

Kerry happily obliges, rucking Johnny’s shirt up his back and fisting the fabric for leverage as he widens his stance. 

“Good boy, Johnny,” Kerry praises, hips hurrying their pace, “remembered your manners.”

Johnny can only groan, broken and wet with the drool slipping from his lips, at the teasing praise. He can’t rightly focus on anything past the feeling of Kerry’s cock, stretching him out, pushing the lithe slope of his belly outwards with its sheer size, and the buzz of his prostate being grazed with each buck of the vocalist’s hips traveling up his thighs and settling as molten heat in his guts. 

Wants it to be meaner— wants Kerry to pin his wrists behind his back and use his arms as leverage, wants him to grab a fistful of his hair and tug so hard it aches in his teeth, wants him to wrap his hand around his throat and choke him until all he sees are little pinpricks and hears nothing but his own pulse. 

But even in his stupor, he knows he won’t get that. Kerry is abusing his intoxicated state to use him how he wants, how Johnny never lets him— sweetly. Full of tenderness and affection and praise that would typically taste of bile on his molars and not like the honey that it does, coating his tongue and choking him with the gentle texture. 

Where his eyes flutter, uncertain about staying closed, he catches the little pool of blood soaking into the scratchy carpeting of the stage. He has long since stopped processing the steady, slow trickle of blood slipping off his slips and trailing through his facial hair. 

The metallic tang when he swipes his tongue over his lips, cleaning them off for just a moment, is dulled to a mere sensation, no concern or disgust registering. 

“So pretty like this,” Kerry praises as he fucks himself deeper into the rockstar. 

He’s not to last long at this pace, with all the teasing on-stage and the oversensitivity. The furrow in his brow is a telltale sign, but the praise just keeps coming— a deluge washing over Silverhand and drowning out any other sensation apart from the stretch and pull of his girth. 

“More,” Johnny keens, white-knuckling against the pressure. He’s been teetering on the edge for what feels like hours, his own cock twitching angrily at the constant teasing. The pool of cloth at his feet and the front of the stage are already ruined, coated with clear pre as Kerry’s treatment continues. Kerry relents. 

With each tug of his head at Silverhand’s rim before he meanly pushes in again, patience waning as his second climax looms, Kerry pulls him back against the next thrust by the shirt. Increasing in speed, the slap of his thighs against Johnny’s ass is a distinct warning to anyone lingering outside the door as it fills the room. 

Eurodyne moans openly now, despite the strain on his already-taxed vocal cords. Shamelessly cracking as he ruins his voice for the next show, he fucks into Johnny, meanly as he’d like. 

Silverhand’s own noises of approval join the symphony, legs trembling beneath him as he fights not to collapse into the added stimulation.

“C’mon— fuck, give it to me,” Kerry demands, his thrusts already growing uneven and erratic. Lube trailing down the backs of Johnny’s thighs and coating his own front only adds to the feverish delight of it all as they sink down into their climaxes. 

Johnny does just so, hole flexing around Kerry as he rides his dual highs— hips rocking in blind pleasure, he paints the front of the stage in an obnoxious amount of cum. He downright whines as Kerry’s cock continues to hit his prostate, not relenting until Eurodyne slides home one last time and downright floods him, singing his praises. 

Smaller rolls of the hips continue until Kerry’s balls are empty. He thoroughly destroys any semblance of Johnny’s dominance, giving him a few seconds of the borderline-overwhelming fullness before pulling out and letting the mess dribble free. 

A broken keen of acute loss escapes Johnny as he’s suddenly left empty, interrupting his beautiful haze of contentment. He feels Kerry’s load roll freely down his perineum and down the insides of his thighs, a shiver working up his spine.

Absolutely debauched.

The combination of both highs starting to plummet make him even more groggy and sluggish than he was in the midst of his intoxication. Mindlessly. He moves a hand to wipe his nose again, and the limb responds with seconds of lag attached. Johnny doesn’t realize he’s sliding to the floor until Kerry has to stabilize him again. 

Catching him by the hips, coaxing him to lay down with his front half draped over the stage, Kerry rubs small reassurances into the dip of his waist and the gentle slope of his thighs. 

“I gotcha,” he hums, voice scratchy and even more so gentle. “So good for me, baby.”

From where Johnny’s nestled in his arms, he lazily lifts a hand and swats the air in irritation.  _ Alright, I’m over it. You can stop now.  _

Kerry chuckles before leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to one of the dimples in the small of Johnny’s back. It makes the other huff, but he doesn’t protest the gesture. 

Carefully as he can, not wanting his boyfriend to take a tumble, Kerry coaxes him into turning around before hoisting him up with a firm grip on his ass. The momentary headrush makes Johnny whimper softly, clinging to Kerry’s neck like a vice as the vocalist moves them over to the rehearsal room sofa. 

All the while Eurodyne peppers small kisses and pecks up and down Johnny’s throat. It seems to satiate him, as he relaxes the moment Kerry settles into the couch. That, or he really was that wiped from everything that night. 

With little cooperation on the bassist’s part due to the fact that sleep is rapidly trying to overtake him, Kerry manages to slide his boots off onto the floor and get his legs untangled and out of his pants before settling into the couch with a sigh. 

With his eyes shut, head tipped back to the ceiling, he simply relishes the heavy weight of Silverhand pliant and comfortable in his lap. Then he hears the tiniest breath hitching in the back of the other’s throat, and he jolts back to the present— only to find Johnny passed out. 

A small hum rattles his frayed vocal cords as he smiles at the sight. His hand comes up to gently wipe at Johnny’s nose, just to check the nosebleed. It’s dried, if just tacky, but it’s done bleeding. 

Kerry allows himself to relax, wrapping both his arms around the rockerboy and shifting down to provide the best position for Johnny to rest peacefully in.

**Author's Note:**

> [lambchop's twitter](https://twitter.com/commanderbait)   
>  [cowboyflesh’s twitter](https://twitter.com/silverdynes)


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